behind them.

"You needn't heave in the dories till after dinner," said Troop,
from the deck. "We'll dress-daown right off. Fix table, boys!"

"Deeper'n the Whale-deep," said Dan, with a wink, as he set the
gear for dressing-down. "Look at them boats that hev edged up
sence mornin'. They're all waitin' on dad. See 'em, Harve?"

"They are all alike to me." And, indeed, to a landsman the nodding
schooners around seemed run from the same mould.

"They ain't, though. That yaller, dirty packet with her bowsprit
steeved that way, she's the 'Hope of Prague'. Nick Brady's her
skipper, the meanest man on the Banks. We'll tell him so when we
strike the Main Ledge. 'Way off yander's the 'Day's Eye'. The two
Jeraulds own her. She's from Harwich; fastish, too, an' hez good
luck; but dad he'd find fish in a graveyard. Them other three,
side along, they're the 'Margie Smith', 'Rose', and 'Edith S.
Walen', all frum home. 'Guess we'll see the 'Abbie M. Deering' to-
morrer, dad, won't we? They're all slippin' over from the shoal o'
'Queereau."

"You won't see many boats to-morrow, Danny." When Troop called his
son Danny, it was a sign that the old man was pleased. "Boys,
we're too crowded," he went on, addressing the crew as they
clambered inboard. "We'll leave 'em to bait big an' catch small."
He looked at the catch in the pen, and it was curious to see how
little and level the fish ran. Save for Harvey's halibut, there
was nothing over fifteen pounds on deck.